


what rough beast (slouches toward bethlehem to be born?)

by nightofdean



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Klinger's Many Uncles, More Violence Than Would Be Allowed on MASH, Mulcahy Family, Seventh Son of A Seventh Son, among other things, dubious blowjobs, psychopomp, smiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: Fates weaved the red string of life in the beginning of time, long ago deciding the path of men. Sometimes, the golden thread of a god became entangled with that of the blood red string of a mortal, entwining them together for all time. Fate does not make mistakes.
Kudos: 5





	what rough beast (slouches toward bethlehem to be born?)

**Author's Note:**

> a really self indulgent fic, idk what to say. bls comment literally anything.

_(Why am I here? Why am I here? Who am I?)_

The light enters him, searingly holy and full of love. He comes into the world screaming in confusion, and agony. His mother screaming in pain at the birth and horror at the sight of her baby boy being overtaken by the ages old curse. Her son's tiny body, hot like a star shining brighter than the sun, screams echoed in the small apartment building, the doctor's skin melting on contact with the baby's scorching hot skin and ear piercing wails, becoming louder and louder the longer he was kept from his mother. His father snatched him from the doctor who was quickly growing hysterical, father's face a stone monolith (remembering the tales told, remembered his grandfather passing away, watching that light flash and disappear), and hastily dumped the wailing baby in it's mother's arms.

The wails stopped immediately. The doctor was a broken lump on the floor boards, the midwife a blubbering mess of tears, and broken prayer, blind to the tragedy, to the curse laid upon the Mulcahy clan.

Whatever son John Patrick Francis Mulcahy would have been was now a mystery to be solved in some other time or reality. Their son taken over by this creature that was now babbling happily at the dangling fingers of it's mother.

* * *

Francis is four years old, he is a small boy. His mother hopes this means the curse has faded and he will die soon. Her husband, John says that has never happened before and isn't likely to happen. John doesn't like her calling it a curse, but she still mutters underneath her breath and curses the changeling that came out of her womb. She says it's a changeling, a fae, pretending to be something from Above, fooling the Mulcahy's for centuries. A deal made with the devil.

John believes in the olde legends though, that this will bring them good fortune. That the entity inhabiting the thing in the sitting room changing the frequencies of the radio by some unseen force is going to do as they wish? Ridiculous.

* * *

Francis is sneaking through the kitchen, he can hear the 418 radios tuned to the evenings show, the neighbors two blocks over arguing about rent, can hear the 256 calls being made to the operator, (can barely hear 57 whispered pleas made to some deeper place inside him (he doesn't know why), he enters the kitchen, it's dark but he can see just fine in the dark. His sister, Katherine, thinks it's super duper cool, but he knows mother hates it, thinks he's unseelie. Katherine is why he's in the kitchen, dinner wasn't enough and he's come here to grab a piece of bread. The counter is still a little too high for him (he should be able to reach the stars, grasp the moon between his fingers), but with the help of a chair he's able to reach the breadbox and rip a piece of bread off the loaf. He gets down and nearly gasps.

"Boy, what are you doing?" the voice of his grandmother isn't angry, just soft and chiding.

"I - I was..."

His grandmother, smiles warmly, creaks her way over to him, takes a seat at the table. "Your ma won't be happy about that you know."

He nods minutely, he knew. He clutched the bread tighter, fingers digging into the crust.

"I won't take it from ya, son." His grandmother's leathery hand pats his cheek, still for a moment, before she continued. "You like your sister. To be needed."

Francis nods, this he knows (knows deeper than anything he's ever known).

"It's why your here, son. It's your purpose."

_(Is this why? why? why? Father? why?)_

And she sent him on his way.

* * *

Francis is fourteen years old, he's still small, scrawny, and full of rage. He did not die like his mother hoped and he did not bring the family good fortune. He's older (than anything on Earth, can feel his essence restitching itself, memories stamped on his Grace) and knows that he's been sent/delivered/trapped here for some unknown purpose. Francis can hear it skipping like a rock on the water's surface of their mind, this is not the first time the Mulcahy's have sacrificed an infant child. It's not just that, there is something else, other forces at work.

In this world, people talk of witches, seers, werewolves, all manner of beast and abomination. They talk of angels too, in hushed tones, as if they can detect the deadly force that lies beneath his skin, bursting with heat. Among all the otherworldly creatures, angels rarely step foot from their realm.

( _Why? why? why?)_.

( _Why am I here?)_

Francis still follows his Father's law (writ in his very being) as if he could disobey. He is seventeen, growing up on the cusp of adulthood. The neighborhood men leer at Katherine's growing body, and Francis can feel the threat in their voice, he pulls her closer, wraps his flight wings (still cursed by that olde curse) around them and uncovers wings from his eyes. The men forgot their identities.

( _I want to be needed. Useful. This is my purpose)._

Francis _Francis (an ancient name in a guttural language rumbles underneath his own)_ is walking home from the gym knuckles bleeding sore and painful, but the humans are better for it. He'd told Katherine about the men he'd made forget themselves and she'd told him to ask her first before he decides to do something like that again. Francis is not sure why, he'd done what had to be done.

A car is following him, followed him for the last week. This time the driver, a man, leans out the window and whistles.

"Hey, want to go for a ride? Help me out, a little?"

Francis tilts his head, thinking, he did like helping. He liked being needed, and this wasn't something he needed to consult his sister about. Francis went with the man, to a motel that smelled of piss and mold. He is slightly perturbed when the help required him to kneel at the man's crotch and take him into his mouth, but he did like to to be useful. When it was done, Francis wiped his mouth, red now with use, and stood up. The man touched Francis' arm, and smirked sloppily, he smelled like sweat and fish. He probably worked at the docks, the man spoke in a scratchy rough voice.

"God, you're so beautiful, show me all of yourself," ordered the man, lust and need in his voice, gaze full of want.

( _This is your purpose. To be needed.)_

Francis touched the man's shoulder, as the man reached out for the hemline of Francis' shirt to pull it off. Francis' uncovered his eyes, unwrapped his wings from his body and that was enough. The room was bathed in searing light.

Francis barely hears the man's startled scream before the room filled with the scent of burnt flesh. Francis' left the room, knuckles still sore, and feeling nothing.

* * *

Francis is nineteen when he joins the Jesuits. He is twenty when Father Gallagher (known as "Boom Boom" Gallagher in his days as an army chaplain, sees, hears, trickling on the surface of the old man's mind) teaches him how to properly throw a punch at the CYO. The athletic wraps meant to protect his hands are stifling in a way that his wings will never be - wrapped around his body as they are.

He joins the choir, learns the piano, teaches at the CYO. He does everything he can ( _Want. I want)_ to help. One of the senior seminarians asks him to lead the choir, he sings ( _a thousand voices, a thousand throats throbbing in service of his God)_ but no one hears it.

The old chaplain tells him jovially as Francis listens quietly, face blank, stories of the front lines. Of the cavalry, and his old friends, those passed on and those still living. He doesn't understand why Father Gallagher insists on telling him these stories over and over, but he has for some reason taken him under his wing - so to speak.

Father Gallagher stops speaking abruptly, "Francis, _son_ , please try to pay attention."

( _I am your Lord, God the Father. )_

_(Holy Holy Holy)_

Francis lifts his gaze up from the stone walls of the seminary. He had been paying attention, the mortar shells had hit the dirt walls of their trench, raining the soldiers with dirt in the middle of a rousing sermon. Francis was an accomplished multi-tasker, taking multiple chores at the seminary, performing the daily chores to perfection. No one else seemed able to keep up, happy to let him clean the stone floors, the dormitory sheets, anything that was needed.

Francis' near translucent blue eyes meet Father Gallagher's dark brown, face inscrutable. This facial expression was unknown to him, he cataloged all the expression of those close to him and their significance to emotional states. This was unknown to him, it distressed him he realized, when everything was known to him. Nearly.

"Francis, I've heard the stories from your home parish, about you."

It's not a question, but a statement. Francis' blood runs cold or it stops all together, his body forgets how to function. He tells himself, that his mentor can't possibly know what he is, but the truth is visible in the old man's eyes.

Second set of wings wrap tight around his body, protecting.

( _Lord. Why? Why? Why?)_

"I only want to say it would do you some good to at least pretend - to care at least. Francis, " the old army chaplain sighed, at admitting this one truth, "people expect a certain demeanor from a Priest and stone cold emotionless stares isn't one." The man paused before continuing, " I know we can get away with a lot before anyone fuses, so maybe try to pretend." 

Pretend, to be something other than what he was. He knew that was what Father Gallagher was asking of him. To don a mask of deceit. 

"You need me too." 

Father Gallagher smiled tightly, "If you can." 

He did. 

* * *

Five years later his wings are wrapped so tightly around hisself he barely notices the bombs drop. At the time, he doesn't know what the tingling sensation against his wings are or the crackling sound in the air is. Of course, the country had a particular metallic zing for the last four years he couldn't wash out of his mouth. An electrical buzz that had nothing to do with the power lines that went up every day or the TV sets in every house. No, this disturbance came directly from the east, carried on the winds, it tasted unnatural and reeked of man's folly. Francis realized as his entire body felt like it was awash in white hot needles and the scent of burnt flesh. The sing of trans Atlantic Morse code beeped in the airwaves sending happy messages of V-Day. He grimaced, as the surge of electric swept the planet, as the greasy hands of politicians and Generals clapped each other on the back at the success of their experiment. 

Francis vacated the streets before they became crowded.

Ten years later and the air still tastes of metal and burnt flesh, an atrocity that will never be washed from the skin of the Earth. 

There is a police action in Korea. 

Francis pays a visit to his sister, Sister Marie Angelica. In the convent garden, the flowers bloom beautifully, Sister Angelica looks up at her brother from her spot tending the herb garden. 

"You couldn't call?" 

He smiles sincerely, "You know I don't like phones."

Sister Marie Angelica folds her hands in her lap, waiting patient. "What is it then?

"I'm going to Korea."

Sister Marie Angelica - Katherine smiles up at him as if she had been expecting just such an announcement. Francis leaves the next day.


End file.
